First Lesson
by GarnetVengeance
Summary: A boy's first lesson in killing. One-shot


Disclaimer: Don't own.

Opening Notes: I don't even pretend to think this is even vaguely historically accurate, or probably even canonly accurate. It's just an idea.

* * *

First Lesson

* * *

He groggily opened his eyes, groaning as they were greeted by blinding sun as it filtered through thin coverings over the windows.

…Sunlight?

"Altaïr!" He heard someone hiss. "What are you doing? Get up!"

"Malik?" He murmured.

"Don't you remember what today is?"

Altaïr's head snapped up. Today the instructors had promised a 'special lesson'. Though they'd never outright told the initiates what this lesson was, rumored had drifted about the group, as it was wont to do amongst any group of ten-year-olds. Knife tossing lessons, actual pick pocketing practice, some even speculated a first kill – not assassination, albeit, but a kill nonetheless.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Altaïr was ready in record time, trotting after Malik as he headed the door. Normally the one being woken, Malik seemed to derive some smug satisfaction as Altaïr caught up.

"Couldn't sleep last night?" He grinned.

Altaïr at least had the decency to look abashed. As an assassin, not only was he unable to rest when able, but he also had been unable to rise. It was disgraceful.

"Students!" The master called, snapping the initiates to attention, "As I'm sure you're all aware, today is a very special day for you.

"You will not be, as many of you speculated, knife-throwing lessons. Goodness knows many of you lack the coordination.

"And you will be not, as was another rumor, pick pocketing. You've yet to master the art of blending into your surroundings, and that is key to the skill.

"And you most certainly will not be having your first kill today. Though today is a crucial step towards achieving that.

"No, today you shall be receiving something of immeasurable value: a companion." The master motioned to a nearby servant as a murmur ran through the group. A companion? But assassination was an individual art. Companions were a liability.

The servant approached the master, carrying a small crate in his arms. The master walked forward to the nearest student, glaring down at the boy, who stared back, confused.

The master turned to the servant, reaching into the crate and pulling out a small bundle. He handed it to the boy, as the others of the group strained to see.

"Be sure to feed him every day." The master said with a small smile as the furry bundle in his hands barked excitedly.

* * *

"Abbud, come." Altaïr called. The dog, now grown, rose obediently, padding along softly behind his master. After ten months together, the pair had grown close, as the master had requested. And, after all this time, the master was going to inspect the hounds, and how the initiates had raised them.

Altaïr and his dog walked into the room where the other initiates waited, and Altaïr motioned for the dog to sit beside him. The master, noticing the arrival of the last stragglers behind them, turned and ran his eyes over the line. Young boys, each one standing straight, with a hound sitting obediently beside them.

"For ten months, you've been with those dogs." The master began, slowly. "You've fed them, trained them, raised them."

"And now, you must kill them."

A discontented murmur ran through the group. Kill the dogs? Why?

"When one has a particularly tenacious target." The master continued, "One will have to follow them, live with them, and infiltrate their inner circle. Befriend them, and wait for the perfect moment. An assassin must have no mercy towards those he must kill." He ran his eyes along the group, "Just as you must now. Kill the dogs."

The initiates shuffled discontentedly, but eventually, the sound of blades as they slid from their sheaths rang throughout the courtyard. Gentle whispers of "stay" followed, which the dogs readily obeyed. They'd followed their boys to swords practice, and had no fear of the blades.

A pained yip rang out, followed by another, and another, until the courtyard was silent but for the whimpers of dying hounds.

"Altaïr." The master called, "Why do you defy your master?"

A muttering passed through the group. Altaïr, the one who always followed orders, had defied the master?

"Master. I understand your reasoning for this, but…" Altaïr trailed off, looking at Abbud, still seated, though looking decidedly nervous as the scent of his brothers' blood filled the courtyard. "Doesn't the Creed tell us to 'stay our blade from the flesh of an innocent'? I fail to see what these dogs have done."

The master glared at the boy, who glared resolutely back. The students surrounding the pair shifted nervously, unsure how to react.

Until, suddenly, the master laughed. A great, booming laugh that echoed about the courtyard. "Well done, Altaïr. That is most true."

The master turned, about to walk away. Altaïr relaxed minutely , thinking he'd won the verbal battle.

The master turned, dagger in hand.

Before Altaïr had time to blink, Abbud was dead on the ground, his blood soaking into the hay strewn about.

"But you should know better than to question your master, Altaïr."

--  
End  
--

Closing Notes: I'm actually really not fond of this one. I really just wrote it to get into the habit of writing again….


End file.
